k of my mind,
nodded gravely but did not speak. I crossed to the shelves and took down
the diary whose leather back bore the date of 1916. As I opened it,
finding the place where its pages had been removed, I continued,

"You and I know--we three here know--" I included Worth in my
statement--"that the crime was neither suicide nor patricide; but it is
likely we must have proof of that fact. Unless we find the murderer--"

"But the motive--there would have to be motive."

Barbara struck right at the core of the thing. She didn't check at the
mere material facts of how a murder could have been done, who might have
had opportunity. The fundamental question of why it should have been was
her immediate interest.

"I believe I've the motive here," I said and thrust the mutilated volume
into her hand. "Some one stole these leaves out of Mr. Gilbert's diary.
The books are filled with intimate details of the affairs of
people--things which people prefer should not be known--names, details
and dates written out completely. It's likely murder was done last night
to get possession of those pages."

She went to the desk and glanced over the book; not the minute
examination with the reading glass which I had given it; that mere flirt
of a glance which, when I had first noticed it the night before at
Tait's, skimming across that description of Clayte, had seemed so
inadequate. Then she turned to me.

"Mr. Gilbert cut these out himself," she pronounced.

That brought Worth's head up and his face around to stare at her.

"You say my father removed something he had written?" he asked. Barbara
nodded. "He never changed a decision--and those books were his
decisions."

"Then this wasn't a correction, but he cut it out. Can't you see, Mr.
Boyne? Those leaves were removed by a man who respected the book and was
as careful in his mutilation of it as he was in its making. It is
precisely written--I'm referring to workmanship, not its literary
quality--carefully margined, evenly indented on the paragraph
beginnings. And so, in this removal of three leaves, the cutting was
done with a sharp knife drawn along the edge of a ruler--" I picked up
from where they lay on the blotting pad, a small pearl-handled knife,
its sharp blade open, and the ruler I had seen when looking down from
the skylight, and placed them before her. She nodded and continued,

"There is a bit of margin left so no other leaves can be loosened by
this removal. The